“Was it usual for Connla to lock his door?”
“Unusual in the extreme. He always left it open.”
“So the door was locked! You say that you went to the window? Was it open?”
“No. It was closed.”
“And secured?”
“Well, I had to smash the glass to open it and squeeze through.”
“Go on. What did you find inside?”
“I had seen through the window that which caused me to see the smashing of the window as my only alternative. I saw the body of the Venerable Connla hanging from a beam.”
“Show me.”
Brother Gormgilla opened the door and conducted her into a spacious round chamber which had been the Venerable Connla’s living quarters and study. He pointed up to the roof rafters. Great beams of wood at the height of eight feet from the ground crossed the room.
“See that one, just near the bed? Old Connla was hanging from it. A rope was twisted ’round it and one end was tied in a noose around his neck. I think that he had been dead for some hours. I knew at once that I could do nothing for him and so I went to rouse Father Máilín.”
Fidelma rubbed her jaw thoughtfully.
“Did you stop to search the room?”
“My only thought was to tell the Father Superior the catastrophic news.”
“You have told me that the door was locked. Was the key on the inside?”
“There was no sign of the key. That was why I had to squeeze back out of the window. Our smithy then came and picked the lock when Father Máilín arrived. It was the missing key that confirmed Father Máilín in his theory that thieves had done the deed, locking Connla in his own chamber after they had hanged him.”
Fidelma examined the lock and saw the scratch marks where it had been picked. There was little else to decipher from it, except that the lock had apparently not been forced at any other stage. Fidelma moved to the window, where she saw the clear signs of broken glass and some scratching on the frame which might have been made by a body pushing through the aperture. It was certainly consistent with Brother Gormgilla’s story.
She went to the bed and gazed up. There was some scoring on the beam.
“Is the bed in the same position?”
“It is.”
Fidelma made some mental measurements and then nodded.
“Let me get this perfectly clear, Brother Gormgilla. You say that the door was locked and there was no key in the lock on either side of the door? You also say that the window was secured and to gain access you had to break in from the outside?”
“That is so.”
“Let me put this question to you, as I have also put it to your Father Superior: his theory is that the Venerable Connla was disturbed by marauders in the night. He went into the chapel to investigate. They overpowered him and brought him back here, hanged him and then robbed him. Does it occur to you that something is wrong with this explanation?”
Brother Gormgilla looked uncomfortable.
“I do not understand.”
Fidelma tapped her foot in annoyance.
“Come now, Brother. For fifteen years you have been his helper; you helped him rise in the morning and had to accompany him to the chapel. Would such a frail old man suddenly start from his bed in the middle of the night and set off to face intruders? And why would these intruders bring him back here to hang him? Surely one sharp blow on the head would have been enough to render Connla dead or beyond hindrance to them?”
“It is not for me to say, Sister. Father Máilín says. .”
“I know what Father Máilín says. What do you say?”
“It is not for me to question Father Máilín. He came to his conclusion after making strenuous inquiries.”
“Of whom, other than yourself, could he make such inquiries?”
“It was Brother Firgil who told the Father Superior about the itinerants.”
“Then bring Brother Firgil to me.”
Brother Gormgilla scurried off.
Sister Fidelma wandered around the chamber and examined the manuscripts and books that lined the walls. Connla had, as hearsay had it, been an extraordinary scholar. There were books on philosophy in Hebrew, Latin, Greek and even works in the old tongue of the Irish, written on wooden wands in Ogham, the earliest Irish alphabet.
Everything was neatly placed along the shelves.
Connla had clearly been a methodical and tidy man. She glanced at some of the works. They intrigued her for they concerned the ancient stories of her people: stories of the pagan gods, the children of the Mother Goddess Danu whose “divine waters” fertilized the Earth at the beginning of time itself. It was a strange library for a great philosopher and teacher of the Faith to have.
At a little desk were vellum and quills where the Venerable Connla obviously sat composing his own works, which were widely distributed among the teaching abbeys of Ireland. Now his voice would be heard no more. His death at the hands of mere thieves had robbed the Faith of one of its greatest protagonists. No wonder the abbot had not been satisfied with Father Máilín’s simple report and had asked Fidelma, as a trained dálaigh of the courts, to make an inquiry which could be presented to the king himself.
Fidelma glanced down at the vellum. It was pristine. Whatever Connla had been working on, he must have finished before his death, for his writing materials were clean and set out neatly; everything placed carefully, ready and waiting. .
She frowned suddenly. Her wandering eye had caught something tucked inside a small calf-bound book on a nearby shelf. Why should she be attracted by a slip of parchment sticking out of a book? She was not sure until she realized everything else was so neat and tidy that the very fact that the paper was left so untidily was the reason which drew her attention to it.
She reached forward and drew it out. The slip of parchment fluttered awkwardly in her hands and made a slow glide to the floor. She bent down to pick it up. As she did so she noticed something protruding behind one of the stout legs of Connla’s desk. Retrieving the parchment she reached forward and eased out the object from its hiding place.
It was an iron key, cold and greasy to the touch. For a moment, she stood gazing at it. Then she went to the door and inserted it. The key fitted into the lock and she turned it slowly. Then she turned it back and took it out, slipping it into her marsupium.
Finally, she reverted her attention to the piece of parchment. It was a note in Ogham. A line, a half constructed sentence, no more. It read: “By despising, denigrating and destroying all that has preceded us, we will simply teach this and future generations to despise our beliefs.Veritas vos liberabit! ”
“Sister?”
Fidelma glanced ’round. At the door stood a thin, pale-faced religieux with a hook nose and thin lips.
“I am Brother Firgil. You were asking for me?”
Fidelma placed the piece of parchment in her marsupium along with the key and turned to him.
“Brother Fergal?” she asked using the Irish name.
The man shook his head.
“Firgil,” he corrected. “My father named me from the Latin Vergilius.”
“I understand. I am told that you informed Father Máilín about the itinerants who were camping in the woods on the night of the Venerable Connla’s death?”
“I did so,” Brother Firgil agreed readily. “I noticed them on the day before that tragic event. I took them to be a band of mercenaries, about a score in number with womenfolk and children. They were camped out in the woods about half a mile from here.”
“What made you think that they were responsible for the theft and for the killing of the Venerable Connla?”
Brother Firgil shrugged.
“Who else would dare such sacrilege than godless mercenaries?”
“Are you sure that they were godless?” Fidelma asked waspishly. The man looked bewildered for a moment and then shrugged.